The boy with dimples

I was back at school visiting with my old editor tonight. We laughed at how the place we both still call home had become so foreign for us. We had issues with which bars were located where. I walked in my favorite pizza place for dinner and I couldn't remember my usual sandwich. I had to call Ze German three separate times to figure out where exactly he was. I ran into people on the street who knew me, but I had no idea who they were. I shared a couch with someone for 45 minutes before recognizing him.

"Oh, are you Matt Amin?"

"Hey Jamie, I was wondering when you were going to say hello."

I was so embarrassed. I felt like they should take my Athens card away from me only to realize I had voluntarily given it up over a year ago when I moved.

We ended up at a bar called 8es. The old Uptown Lounge as Leah had to explain to me. Bars never stay the same name for very long and drinking games had been developed where you name the history of a bar. "Uptown Lounge to Sterling Britches to something else to 8es" I recalled involuntarily, thinking of the game.

At the bar a familiar face passed in front of me. I grabbed Leah's arm.

"I know that boy," I hissed.

"You do?"

The face walked closer and I began to panic because I knew I would have to say something soon. "I could never forget a boy with dimples," I whispered.

He was different, but I knew those dimples. I ignored the rest of him and focused on his smile as he approached me.

"Travis!"

A girl could never forget her bartender. Sure I forgot people I worked for years with, but with my dimpled bartender the name came easily. (Before you pass judgment, the same thing happened to Leah at the previous bar, so you'll have to judge her too.)

"Jamie!"

It was unusual for bartenders to remember their customers. Work in Athens and you'll end up serving thousands of people that know your name, but you have no idea who they are. Once people leave the city, any bond is usually forgotten in lieu of new tippers.

The boy with dimples remembered me.

"You grew your hair out. Now I can't rub your head anymore!"

Maybe this is why he remembers me.

He looked me up and down, "You look good, can I get you something?"

I was planning to get water at this bar, but when a boy with dimples remembers you, you have to order your signature drink.

"Sapphire martini with three olives."

He set the drink down in front of me and waived my hand away when I tried to pay him. Instead I put a couple of bills on the edge of the bar which he grabbed and stuck in his pocket.

"What's new with you? Where are you living these days?" he asked.

"I'm in Atlanta; I'm a grown up now!"

Leah snickered. The boy with dimples laughed. "Oh yeah? What's so great about being a grown up?"

I pressed my lips together and gave it a quick thought. 50 hour work weeks, more bills, higher rent, no boyfriend in sight... "Better shoes!" I announced triumphantly.

Leah doubled over and the boy with dimples laughed again. "You haven't changed at all."

We talked some more and I couldn't hear most of what he said so I just smiled and nodded at the boy with dimples.

Oh yeah, and Michael Stipe sat at the table next to me at another bar, but as you can tell, dimples excite me way more than celebrities.

I must go to bed, I have an 8 o'clock implosion in the morning.

You know, hypothetically

What if I said, hypothetically, that I was cooking this week. Okay fine, I was heating up a can of soup, hypothetically. And hypothetically the pot boiled over. And I didn't clean up the soup from inside the burners because I was feeling lazy, hypothetically.

What if, hypothetically, the next night I go to heat up another can of soup and, hypothetically, a fire started. Hypothetically, I heard a poof and there were flames everywhere. It was the biggest fire I've ever managed to start in the kitchen, hypothetically.

So I found the fire extinguisher under the sink and began reading the directions because boy were there a lot of big flames... hypothetically. Then I hypothetically decided I didn't want to use the extinguisher because then my can of soup would be ruined. So I removed the pot off the burner and covered the burner with a pot lid to suffocate the flames, hypothetically. It worked eventually, hypothetically, but not without me starting to freak out and wonder how fast I could obtain renter's insurance before the fire trucks came.

So let's just say that the pot in question smells like smoke, hypothetically. And the once stainless steel look now hypothetically resembles that of a copper pot.

Do I keep the pot? Or do I throw it out and buy a new one?

You know, hypothetically.

Does your cat put his right paw in the air while making a noise that sounds suspiciously like "Sieg Miaow"?

I just laughed so hard I choked on my own spit until I cried:

http://www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com/

Don't believe me? Check this guy out:

An Open Letter to My Live Journal Friends

LJers,

I'm sorry that I called you a bunch of Cheeto-stained finger, D&Ding LARPers with unhealthy obsessions towards Mountain Dew and Domino's Pizza. As it turns out, you are not all like that.

Or I just haven't read your archives yet.

See you in your comments sections,

Llama Rama

*Note- Thanks for the e-mails. I am not leaving Blogger, I just needed an LJ account to comment on my friends' blogs over there.

Hassle Me

I found the greatest MySpace profile template ever.

The credit card is in the freezer, But that doesn't mean I won't wipe off the ice.

Last night for dinner I ate this:


Tomorrow for dinner I plan to eat this:


But don't worry, I'm not so broke that I have to give up these:


That's right, I went on a shopping spree: a six hour free for all. I woke up Saturday morning and decided I needed new bedding. To quote Field of Dreams, "If you build it, they will come." Before you get all sassy on me and declare you saw the episode of Sex and the City where Miranda tries to improve her bed karma by making her bed a nice place to be-- well that's exactly what this is. But you should know me as not being cliche enough to copy a TV show, hence my Field of Dreams reference. If I build a nice bed, the boys will come. (Not a euphemism. Well... partial euphemism...)

So here it is-- my new bed:

You are looking at a new down comforter, new duvet cover, new blanket, new sheets (oh my god, my butt is still bleeding with what they charged me), and a new down mattress pad. Lovely 500 thread count everything. Mmm.

My colors are chocolate and mint, which makes me dream of thin mints. Not necessarily a bad thing.

Then on my way out, I walk past this mirror which I believe ties my living room together. Well, that and it was 90% off. So $30 later and my living room looks like this:


And while I am eating my peanut butter and canned soup for the next two weeks, I will be wearing these:

And if I ever get depressed about eating canned food, I can just slip on my other new pair:

Oh yes ladies, those are Guess by Marciano.

But who really needs to eat when you have shoes like these?

The 1950s called, he wants his wife back

While I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the tub this afternoon, I felt the strand of pearls around my neck repeatedly fall against my chest.

When exactly did I become that kind of girl?

Boy Toys

Always living with boys, there were certain things I never had to do. I never had to wash my truck for example, they would take care of that for me. I've never had to pick up dead bugs off the floor and I've never had to hook up my TV to the DVD player and VCR. My knowledge stops at red, white, and yellow.

When I started dating Piedmont Park Guy, I got all excited when he inspected my TV and started mentioning things like "S-video" and "fiber optics" and colors like red, green, and blue.

"You have a really nice system," he says. "You're really not maximizing the output. I have some extra stuff at home I could bring over and get this set up for you."

But like most promises from guys, it's still red, white, yellow at Casa James.

Candler Park Guy entered the picture and as the blessed event known as the Grey's Anatomy Season Premiere Extravaganza approached, I made a frantic phone call.

"Sorry babe, but I'm actually on assignment," he says.

It's 45 minutes and counting until GASPE and I'm laying on my floor kicking, screaming, and swearing as I'm trying to figure out how the hell to get the VCR to read the TV channels.

"J, inhale, exhale. You can do this." My Aussie boyfriend is 10,000 miles away and is sitting on the phone with me while I nearly have a breakdown. From a different hemisphere, he coaches me on how to program a VCR.

The little red light in the corner comes on and as we double check I got the channels correct, I breathe a sigh of relief.

"You say the other blokes live two streets away?"

"Both of 'em."

"Well something's not right."

"No, something isn't right."

I was late to work this morning

Seriously? You wait to kill yourself until rush hour on a Thursday morning? I wish someone would have pushed her.

The skinny on skinny

I was going to write a post about the new fall fashions and how they aren't made for anybody. Period. No one should wear skinny jeans.

After that rant, I was going to segue into my hatred for the new Gap commercial featuring Audrey Hepburn and the horrible skinny black pants also not made for anyone outside a Gap clothed mannequin.

Then I read a blog post by this girl. She did a much funnier job than I ever could on these very same subjects so just read hers instead and pretend I wrote it.

Does this mean I can say "bugger" now that I know people who do?

I was on the phone over the weekend with my Australian boyfriend (I've made it a goal to establish contacts on other continents in case, you know, I ever need to leave the country in a rush. I keep my passport in my purse already for this very reason) and we start playing what if. What if I ever made it to Australia-- what we would do, where we would go. What if he took an assignment in the States and was able to visit me, etc.

I say, without a doubt, he would have to see the most redneck thing I know of in Atlanta: Stone Mountain.

I sit down at the computer and send the link over to him.

"Good lord," he chokes. "What is wrong with you people?"

"What do you mean?" I didn't even get a chance to tell him about the sordid history of the mountain and the Klan. For instance how the KKK used to burn crosses on top of the mountain so everyone around could see.

"You see a mountain and you just start chiseling away at it! What is with your need to carve shit into things!?"

Mount Rushmore, Stone Mountain: he has a point.

"I mean if I ever showed this to an Australian, he would be outraged!"

"It's art?"

"You vandals!"

He zooms over to Wikipedia and begins reading its entry. There he learns how the KKK commissioned the carving of the "bloody horsemen" on the side.

"Those are Civil War heroes," I half-laugh.

"Bloody horsemen!" he repeats incredulously. "1972!? It was finished in 1972? You have no excuse for this!"

"Wait for it. Wait for it." And I send him this. I tell him how they play God Bless America while illustrating it with lasers on the side of the mountain.

He guffaws.

I never really thought about it, but there really aren't any huge carvings in other areas of the world. And I had never considered others' reactions to ours.

"Seriously, y'all should get into carving in mountains. You have some big rocks!"

"We have Uluru," he says. "I'm sure the local people would let us whities chisel a representation of Steve Irwin into it."

Viva Grey's Anatomy!

Is it too pathetic if I say that because the new season of TV is starting this week, I feel a rejuvenation in my life?

It is?

Well I'm not going to say that then.

Caution-- new camera in use

At the party.

My favorite shot of the night. Purely an accident. I swear. Really.

Later on at the restaurant. Notice the x-ray factor of my new camera.

My plus one at dinner.

Trying to show my love for the blogosphere, but it was deemed too hot for TV.

At an unknown hour after an unknown amount of alcohol.

We are one step closer to hell. I can taste it.

MSN just officially used haut. I think I just heard Satan fart from the pits of hell.

Your favorite Jessie Spano quote

To Do List:


• Shave Legs
• Pluck Eyebrows
• Paint Toenails
• Trim the Hedges
• Laxatives
• Look Fabulous

I have a fancy office party tonight. It's my first one and I'm a bit excited about it. Ok, I'm pee-in-my-pants excited.

The last time I got to get all dressed up for an event, I ended up walking in on my then-boyfriend in bed with another girl. Chances are this will be a much better night than that one.

Plus my first little black dress-- wheee!

Pictures to come.

Flashback

Not all posts I write actually make it past the "Save as Draft" button. Some get rewritten into forms of prose. Paragraphs removed. Jokes deleted. Some are deemed too personal to throw carelessly out there for strangers to devour. Below is one such post.

Originally written December 1st, 2005.

I saved the wishbone from our Thanksgiving Day turkey and kept it on the counter until it dried out. I could use a wish these days. I, however, did not want to pull it against anyone else because I knew I would lose. And even if I did win, it wouldn't come true, just like my birthday wishes. In fact, the exact opposite happens.

The wishbone was more like a decision making bone. The left side was to move to South Carolina and try to start over in Charleston; the right was to move to Alabama and accept Jenn's generous offer. I closed my eyes and pulled. The left side broke and it took me a couple of seconds to realize what the outcome was. Is it the broken piece that wins? Or is it the piece that is still attached to the top?

The decision was made: I am going to move to Alabama. I walked back to the living room, sat down on the couch, and stared. I have to move to Alabama. Alabama is not what I wanted for my life. I wanted to move east and be as close to Beaufort or Charleston as possible. If I move to Alabama, I will be at least eight hours away from the beach house; I won't be able to escape there anymore. No one will visit me in Huntsville-- who goes there? I want a man with a college education and a proper job. That's few and far between there. Alabama is Georgia's rival. I hate Alabama.

I began to cry. I really didn't want to move there, but I was resigned to the idea. I've been looking for months for a job without a single bite. The only one willing to take a risk on me is my friend from high school. I began to cry harder. I love Jenn dearly and she is really great to me and I don't want to disrespect her or her offer. I think it's more of she's the only one that wants me and I'm crying for all the people that don't. Not to mention I'm sick and am also battling a fever.

Will my parents support me when I tell them? What will they say when they see me cry and unhappy with my decision? But really, what are my other options?

At that exact moment my phone rang. It was a local number that I didn't recognize so I let it go to voicemail. I checked the message. It was a recruiter from a resume I put in today. I wasn't expecting anything from it because for one, no one has seemed interested in three months. Secondly, I wrote a crap cover letter under the influence of my fever. I could have done a better job with it.

She wants me to call her back tomorrow morning. A real job. In my field. Even though I wanted out of Atlanta, it's still close enough to the beach. It made my day.

I'm an equal opportunity hater

I have decided today that I don't like makeup counter girls.

That's another group to add to my list:

• cab drivers
• poor white trash
• makeup counter girls

There's a lot of things a girl is able to scrimp on to make her outrageous rent each month. One non-negotiable, however, is foundation. A girl's skin is one of the most important things about her.

I walked into Bloomingdales to pick up more of my foundation. I'm not looking for a free makeover; I know exactly what I need. The makeup counter girl doesn't need to do anything but reach her sticky hand behind the glass and pick up the box and swipe my credit card. Easy commission.

That is, if she could remove her fat ass from her other makeup counter friends two counters down.

I stood with my face pressed up against the Estee Lauder glass for five minutes and the makeup counter cow didn't even budge. Next I set the eye shadow on fire with my lighter and tried sending her smoke signals with the box of tissues next to me. Nothing. Then I finally pulled my bra off and waved it over my head like a helicopter blade. She mooed.

When did these girls become the laziest people ever?

I left. Without my foundation, I left.

I walked into Neiman Marcus and stood expectantly at the Estee Lauder counter. The makeup counter girl was trying to escape, but stopped when she saw me and smiled. I stared at her. She tried to leave again and then changed her mind and stopped.

"Oh, did you need something?" she asks.

Well, I don't know why else I would be standing here making eye contact with you, Genius.

Confidence run amok

After watching Into the Blue this weekend, I decided that I'm going to be needing a body like Jessica Alba's. As I was just brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I lifted up my shirt and studied my increasingly flat stomach.

I think I can do it.

James and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

The Slump is officially over.

Several things have marked this occasion:

1. Concessions was made on rent again. I went out and bought a digital camera before anything on my truck could break.
2. Found out I have free cable. I am receiving channels on my beloved Sony that I am clearly not paying for. There is a downside to this-- I have no idea how long I have had this wondrous free cable and have been wasting my summer reading and writing instead of watching The Hills.
3. Went out to lunch today with Erin. I got checked out by a beautiful trouble-making bad boy and the proprietor gave me free M&Ms.

All in all, it's been a very good day.

Dear Producers of Vanished,

As a resident of Atlanta, I am here to solve all your inconsistencies with the city of which you base your show out of. My fee is nominal (see: twenties. A lot of twenties.)

When your newscaster refers to Buckhead, GA, she is actually referring to the wrong place. For Buckhead, the posh neighborhood in Atlanta, one just says Buckhead. For the po' dunk paper mill factory backwoods town, one says Buckhead, GA. I'm pretty sure your rich senator lives in Buckhead.

Chamblee is pronounced with a soft "ch," as in "chardonnay." It is "Sham-blee" and the city is as ghetto as it sounds. You got that part right. However, the "a" is pronounced as "am" not as "father." Please stop saying "Shaumblee" as it is very irritating.

Until the next 'sode,

James

E tu, Blogger or Things That Me Want to Put My Head Through a Wall

And this, Blogger, is why we're not friends at the moment: